Iris sighed, then started to laugh because really, what else could she do? She gave this five minutes before every soul in the house knew of her mortifying—and mortifyingly dressed—tumble. Except her husband, of course. No one would dare breathe a word of it to him.

It was a very small shred of dignity, but she decided to cling to it.

Ten minutes later she’d donned one of her new silk nightgowns and covered it with a less revealing robe. She braided her hair for bed; it was where she intended to go just as soon as she finished eating. She could not imagine she would sleep right away, not after the nap she’d just taken. But she could read. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d stayed up half the night with a book and a candle.

She walked over to her side table to look through the stack of books she’d pulled from the library earlier that afternoon. She’d left Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman down in the drawing room, but she’d lost her taste for Hungarian archers.

And pathetic heroines who spent their time dithering and crying and wondering who might come to the rescue.

She’d read ahead. She knew what was coming.

No, she was not going to spend any more time with the piteous Miss Truesdale.

Picking up the books one by one, she examined her options. Another Sarah Gorely novel, a bit of Shakespeare, and a history of Yorkshire.

She took the history. She hoped it was boring.

But no sooner had she settled on her bed than she heard another knock at her door.

“Enter!” she called out, eager for supper.

The door that opened, however, was not the one that led to the hall. Instead it was the connecting door, the one that led to her husband’s bedchamber. And the person who entered was her husband.

“Richard!” she squeaked, scrambling off the bed.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice smooth as brandy. Not that she drank brandy, but everyone said it was smooth.

Good God, she was nervous.

“You’re dressed for supper,” she blurted out. Rather splendidly, too, in a bottle green superfine coat and pale yellow brocaded waistcoat. She now knew firsthand that his coats needed no padding. He’d told her once that he often helped his tenants in his fields. She believed him.

“You’re not,” he said.

She looked down at her tightly belted robe. It covered her up more than most ball gowns, but then again, most ball gowns could not be undone by a single tug of a sash.

“I intended to eat in my room,” she said.

“As do I.”

She looked at the open doorway behind him.

“Your room,” he clarified.

She blinked. “My room?”

“Is that a problem?”

“But you’ve already eaten.”

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Actually, I have not.”